Insufficient Funds: The Culture of Money in Low-Wage Transnational Families

Stanford University Press

Stanford, California

© 2014 by the Board of Trustees of the Leland Stanford Junior University.

All rights reserved.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Thai, Hung Cam, author.

Insufficient funds : the culture of money in low-wage transnational families / Hung Cam Thai.

pages cm

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-0-8047-7731-5 (cloth : alk. paper) —

ISBN 978-0-8047-7732-2 (pbk. : alk. paper)

1. Vietnamese—United States—Economic conditions.   2. Vietnamese—United States—Social conditions.   3. Immigrants—Family relationships—United States.   4. Immigrants—Family relationships—Vietnam.   5. Money—Social aspects—United States.   6. Money—Social aspects—Vietnam.   7. Families—Economic aspects—United States.   8. Families—Economic aspects—Vietnam.   9. Transnationalism—Social aspects—United States.   10. Transnationalism—Social aspects—Vietnam.   I. Title.

E184.V53.T45 2014

305.8959'22073—dc23

2013042134

ISBN 978-0-8047-9056-7 (electronic)

Typeset by Bruce Lundquist in 10.5/15 Adobe Garamond

INSUFFICIENT FUNDS

The Culture of Money in Low-Wage Transnational Families

Hung Cam Thai

Stanford University Press

Stanford, California

To my students and teachers

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Note on Translations

1. Six Tales of Migrant Money

2. The Making of a Transnational Expenditure Cascade

3. Money as a Currency of Care

4. The Migrant Provider Role

5. The American Dream in Vietnam

6. Compensatory Consumption

7. Emulative Consumption

8. The Cyclical Entrenchment of Monetary Habits

9. The High Price of Esteem Consumption

10. Tall Promises

Conclusion:

Special Money in Low-Wage Transnational Families

Appendix: Methodology and Interviewees

Notes

Bibliography

Index

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My first gratitude is reserved for the more than 120 men and women who spent time sharing with me stories about their lives. Some of them may disagree with my analysis, but I hope they recognize the importance of their stories in helping the world understand dilemmas associated with the culture of money among transnational families.

My second thanks go to the institutions that provided financial support: the Pacific Rim Fellowship, the Hewlett Foundation, the Freeman Foundation, the John Randolph Haynes and Dora Haynes Foundation, the Senior Research Fellowship in the Asia Research Institute at the National University of Singapore, and the Faculty Residential Fellowship at the Institute of East Asian Studies at Berkeley. Many thanks to former dean Cecilia Conrad at Pomona College for providing generous research funds for fieldwork and for time off to write, and to Associate Dean Jonathan Wright for approving the earmarking of such funding, even when the earmarking seemed unconventional.

A team of research assistants from the United States and Vietnam was involved in different phases of the project: from the United States, my students Dani Carillo, Christopher Fiorello, Kyla Johnson, and Nicole Runge came to Vietnam to help me collect data; and from Vietnam, Loc Mai Do, Nhat Minh, Bich Nguyen, Hanh Nguyen, Nga Nguyen, Tuan Nguyen, and Tuyet Phan helped with fieldwork and data analysis. Bich and Nhat worked tirelessly for more than three years managing the research team, recruiting respondents, helping to oversee the transcription of data, and summarizing interviews. On campus at Pomona, Ciera Divens, Laura Enriquez, and Delilah Garcia helped collect and verify hard facts. Howard Chang and Jordan Pedraza organized relevant readings, created the bibliography, and provided various other forms of research support. Notably, Jordan spent an entire year digitizing all the materials in my office on one USB disk so I could be globally portable. The input of these sixteen research assistants was vital to the core work that went into the book.

The chapters of this book contain ideas developed over a decade, during which time I benefited greatly from conversations with many more people than I can name. In various contexts, I am grateful to Sherry Apostol, Ingrid Banks, Daniele Belanger, Huong Bui, Richard Bui, Jorgen Carling, Nicole Constable, Bui The Cuong, Mary Danico, Ajay Deshmukh, Pawan Dhingra, Joanna Dreby, Mach Duong, Lai Ah Eng, Yen Le Espiritu, Sarah Fenstermaker, Evelyn Nakano Glenn, Patrick Harms, Kimberly Kay Hoang, Lan Anh Hoang, Arlie Hochschild, Adi Hovav, Evelyn Hu-Dehart, Sallie Hughes, Sergey Ioffe, Gavin Jones, Miliann Kang, Nazli Kibria, Nadia Kim, Jaime Kurtz, Vivian Louie, Edward Necaise, Sinh Nguyen, Eileen Otis, Rhacel Parrenas, Allison Pugh, Karen Pyke, Kitsana Salyphone, Leah Schmalzbauer, Celine Shimizu, Rachel Silvey, Joe Singh, Lok Siu, Jinnhua Su, Barrie Thorne, Mika Toyota, Kim Xuyen Tran, Allison Truitt, Kim Chuyen Truong, Takeyuki Tsuda, Linda Trinh Vo, Biao Xiang, Brenda Yeoh, Jean Yeung, and Peter Zinoman.

During the final stage of this book, I unexpectedly received a writing fellowship that allowed me to spend nine months at the Institute of East Asian Studies at UC Berkeley. I am thankful to members of the faculty group there who met regularly to discuss our work, including You-tien Hsing, John Lie, Xin Liu, and Qing Zhou. Special thanks to the director, Wen-hsin Yeh, who provided skillful moderation for our group meetings, and to Rochelle Halperin and Charlotte Cowden for cheerfully administering all our events.

I am indebted to Bryan DeWitt, Jason Gonzalez, Gilda Ochoa, Patrick Snyder, Whitney Snyder, Khoi Tran, My Huynh Tran, and Linus Yamane for reading the entire book and giving valuable feedback. David Hinson and Patricia McDonald, two friends from my undergraduate years, also read the entire book and gave editorial advice about reframing materials for readability and analytical rigor. The final person who read the manuscript and to whom I am most indebted is Jude Berman, whom I met while on the fellowship in Berkeley. Jude read countless drafts, and the book would be sloppier and much less readable without her critical feedback.

I am also grateful for the feedback I received from audience members at universities, conferences, bookstores, and community organizations where I delivered lectures, including in Tel Aviv, Beirut, Paris, Bucharest, Rome, Prague, Singapore, Beppu, Kyoto, Tokyo, Lund, Saigon, Hanoi, Da Nang, Beijing, Penang, Hong Kong, Kunming, Kuala Lumpur, Montréal, Seoul, Miami, Blacksburg, East Lansing, Sacramento, Berkeley, Denver, Atlanta, Portland, San Francisco, San Diego, Los Angeles, Boston, Tucson, New Orleans, Santa Barbara, Pomona, and Claremont.

In Claremont and Los Angeles, friends and colleagues provided support that made the balance of teaching, writing, and fun achievable. They include Eileen Cheng, David Elliott, Peter Flueckiger, Dru Gladney, Elizabeth Glater, Bryan Gobin, Sharon Goto, Eric Hurley, Eysha Hurley, Shelva Hurley, Pardis Mahdavi, Lynn Miyake, Hoang Nguyen, Gilda Ochoa, Rhacel Parrenas, Ben Rosenberg, Heather Williams, and Sam Yamashita. Most importantly, I am indebted to Lynn Rapaport for her support as a colleague and friend, and to Sheila Pinkel for her wisdom and humor. Gail Orozco and Kayo Yoshikawa provided administrative support on a daily basis and made it possible for me to serve concurrently as chair of the Department of Sociology and director of the Pacific Basin Institute while working on the book. Sheri Sardinas recently joined the Department of Sociology and has been a terrific staff member. Madeline Gosiaco has provided administrative support in the Intercollegiate Department of Asian American Studies, for which I am thankful. Michele Levers and Cindy Snyder from the Honnold Library were incredibly helpful in gathering materials whenever I needed a source, sending them to me at lightning speed when I requested them. Anna Ratana and Theresa Alvarez made sure everything in my personal life was in order so I could flourish in my professional life.

I am extremely grateful to Kate Wahl, editor-in-chief at Stanford University Press, who acquired my book and then served as my editor. Kate’s feedback helped sharpen the arguments and clarify many points. Kate was always encouraging, yet straightforward, honest, and professional; she truly lives up to her national reputation as a dream editor. I am also indebted to the two anonymous reviewers who read the entire manuscript and provided constructive and helpful comments, as well as to Jan McInroy for the incredible work on meticulously copyediting the book. At the press, Frances Malcolm provided critical and speedy administrative support, while Emily Smith, the production editor, shepherded the book through the final phase of getting it into print.

My personal thanks come last for the people whose friendships enriched my life while I worked on this book. In Vietnam, My Chau, Jonathan Gordon, Thanh Kim Hue, Dam Vinh Hung, Huong Lan, Ut Bach Lan, Tin Le, Daniel Logan, Nga Nguyen, Thuc Nguyen, Kieu Oanh, My Tam, Le Thuy, Kim Chuyen Truong, Linh Truong, and Bach Tuyet provided companionship whenever I needed, and especially when I needed help in recruiting respondents. My friendships with Richard Bui, Huong Bui, and Chanh Phan in Vietnam provided a sturdy anchor for a wonderful life there and enabled me to thrive in my work. Richard and Huong opened their homes to me generously whenever I needed to be in Vietnam, and I am grateful for their friendship, generosity, and interest in my work. In France, my dear friend Mary Boyington provided constant support from afar via Skype, as well as a haven during my visits to her home in Aix-en-Provence when I needed a break from life outside the Vietnam–U.S. corridor.

In Berkeley during the final stage of writing this book, a number of friends were integral to the daily, nonstop task of writing; without them, I am confident I would not have been motivated to complete the task. Anjelica Randall urged me to learn the art of taking walks, which I am convinced was the ultimate trick in getting the writing done. Neetha Iyer stepped in at the perfect moment to cheer me on to the finish line. Sherry Apostol provided intimate labor in many forms, most important of which was the daily and often unplanned companionship so essential for my well-being. At Berkeley, the proximity to a few of my lifelong friends meant I was able to call on them whenever I needed to get away from the treacherous mental work of writing. Ajay Deshmukh and Jinnhua Su made themselves available whenever I asked to do anything that got me away from writing. Matthew Nemethy knew just the right moment to disrupt my writing. All these friends came to my house when I needed the disruption, but also respected the times I had to be alone to get the work done. Finally, Sergey Ioffe never fails to be a reliable ear to listen to any dilemma I face, as well as to celebrate with me anything that needs celebration, no matter how far apart we may be at the time. I am most fortunate to have found a best friend in adulthood with whom social equivalence, anomaly, idiosyncrasy, loyalty, reliability, trust, brilliance, and humor are entangled in such a complex and fun way. It is through Sergey that I learned that friendships do not naturally develop, but are made through focused effort and intent. And yet, paradoxically, true friendship is achieved effortlessly over time.

Victoria and Clive Elppa made sure I was on task each and every day, calling me every hour in the last six months of writing, and cheerleading with a daily report on my progress when I sometimes felt I could not write another word. Claudia Rucaa made sure I never got lost wherever I went, and happily joins me on every single journey I make.

NOTE ON TRANSLATIONS

Vietnamese is a tonal language with varying regional dialects that requires the use of diacritic marks. I have chosen not to employ diacritic marks in order to facilitate smooth reading. In addition, as with any research involving translations, some words do not have exact translations, and some words lose their complexity once translated. When translations seriously lose intended meanings, I have provided the original Vietnamese words in parentheses without diacritic marks. In complicated cases, I have provided additional explanations in the endnotes.

CHAPTER 1

SIX TALES OF MIGRANT MONEY

THIS BOOK tells the story of money and migration among transnational families in the Vietnamese diaspora, with a specific focus on families of low-wage immigrants living in the United States and their left-behind non-migrant relatives in Vietnam.¹ It is about the culture of money, as experienced by those who give, those who receive, and those who spend, as well as about those who left and those who stayed put. This nearly forty-year narrative begins with the mass exodus of Vietnamese emigrants after the Vietnam War ended in 1975, picks up again with the post-1986 reentry of Vietnam into the world economy after a decade hiatus of economic progress, and picks up yet again in 1995, when the United States and Vietnam resumed diplomatic relations after a twenty-year suspension.²

The people you are about to meet include members of transnational families whom I met and interviewed in Vietnam. Their stories give us a sense of how migrants sacrifice for their left-behind relatives back home, as well as why they are compelled to give and spend money. At the same time, these stories tell us about a global culture of relative consumption that has prevailed in many economies of the developing world, owing to increasing numbers of transnational migrants making return visits and spending money there.³ The ways in which different members of these low-wage transnational families interpret giving, receiving, and spending money—all of which are embedded in classical sociological concerns about obligation, reciprocity, status, and economic behavior in family life—carry significant implications for understanding the contemporary intersection of social class and migration under global capitalism. I first introduce three immigrant individuals now living in the United States; in the following section, we meet their respective non-migrant relatives living in Vietnam.

THE MIGRANTS

Cam Bui lives in southwestern Philadelphia in a small rented apartment, less than a ten-minute drive from the city’s Vietnamese enclave, where she goes to work and socialize.⁴ Now thirty-eight years old, she came to the United States with one of her older brothers in the early 1990s at the age of nineteen. Her parents and four other siblings live in and around Thu Duc, a suburb seventeen miles outside Saigon’s city center.⁵ Last year, Cam married another Vietnamese immigrant, whom she met at the Catholic church she attends in the Philadelphia community. She returns to Vietnam to visit her family more often than her brother does because she is able to take off more easily from her job as a cashier at a supermarket owned by a co-ethnic friend. Both she and her brother, however, regularly send money to support the entire family in Thu Duc.

The two began sending money after Cam returned to Vietnam in 1999, her first visit in about a decade. Their father had had a heart attack, but it would have been too expensive for both siblings to make the trip. When she arrived, Cam was relieved to find her father had recovered; however, her month-long stay showed her the extent to which she had forgotten the reality of Vietnam. She explains: I knew, of course, people don’t have a lot, but I did not know the severity of poverty, on the street, in my parents’ neighborhood. Everywhere you go, it was a different world from America. When you get older, you see things differently. That initial visit led Cam to reexamine her life in America:

Up to that point, I think I always felt that I did not do so well in America. I always compared myself to all my friends who went on to college and got professional jobs. But that first visit really forced me to think about how lucky I am to live in America, how I have so much more than my family. I always know that at a minimum, I can find a job, no matter how low-paying. My siblings cannot say the same in Thu Duc because there are absolutely no jobs there.⁶

When Cam returned to Philadelphia, she acted on her new transnational view by telling her brother she thought they should regularly send money back home. Previously, they typically sent money only when an emergency arose. At first, her brother resisted Cam’s proposal, claiming they should continue to send money only when someone needed it. Cam says her brother did not think we could afford to send money regularly and he did not want people in Vietnam to expect it from us on a regular basis. Even though her brother was worried about adding to their financial burden, Cam was willing to work longer hours for extra pay, as long as her brother could contribute some money. Eventually she convinced him to give $300 a month. Cam herself decided to put in about $500 per month. This amount is about a third of her monthly pay, if she includes pay for the ten overtime hours she added weekly. As she says, My heart aches every time I think about one of my sisters, who is married with two children and they all live in a house that has a dirt floor.

Cam and her brother now have a system for managing how much and how often they send money to family members. "We have a separate bank account for gui tien [sending money] to our family so we can keep track of the money. We try hard, no matter what, to send money on a regular basis, Cam explains. Our family cannot support themselves no matter what they do in Vietnam. All our siblings work, but none of them makes more than $150 per month, and they all have children. So we decided that because we were lucky to come to America, we would help them out."

Cam cares deeply for her left-behind family members in Vietnam, a few of whom helped to fund the passage for her and her brother to come to the United States as boat refugees among thousands of unaccompanied minors.⁷ She feels indebted to her family for the passage, but perhaps even more important, Cam’s perspective about economic privilege and her own financial status—however limited it might be by her $12-per-hour job—is rooted in her dual frame of reference for life in Philadelphia and in Thu Duc. She feels extremely lucky, for example, that she does not live in a house with a dirt floor, and that she can drink water directly from the tap. When I met her, Cam had made six visits back to Vietnam, staying more than one month each time. Her goal in each subsequent visit was to make life even better for her family there. I wanted to do everything I could to help my family, she says. I got extra work. I started working on weekends. I started spending less money. In addition, every penny I saved I would send back to my parents, brothers, and sisters. I began to see them as my only responsibility in life.

.   .   .

Dinh Le is a thirty-six-year-old man who rents a room from a Vietnamese immigrant family in San Jose, California. He and his parents came to the United States when Dinh was eighteen, under the sponsorship of Dinh’s older brother and his brother’s wife. Dinh lived with them in Orlando, Florida, before he decided to move to California to attend a community college. Although he did not know anyone there, he went by himself because he had always dreamed of going to California, which has the largest Vietnamese immigrant population in the United States (i.e., in San Jose, Orange County, and San Diego). He has been going to school part-time at the community college, but does not think he will finish. He explains, I’ve never liked school and I am not sure if it is going to get me a good job. If I transfer to the university, I think the best I could do is study accounting, but that is so boring. He is now working in San Jose as a carpenter, a job he says he enjoys because he is always on the move. Dinh is one of the highest-paid immigrants I interviewed for this book, making nearly $20 per hour. He describes himself as very hardworking and hopes to own a business one day.

Dinh returned to Vietnam for the first time shortly after he moved to California. Of that first return trip, he says, It was the time of my life. It was like California on steroids! I always wanted to live in California because of the large Vietnamese population, but I should have thought about coming back to Vietnam and living here for some period. It is like I found a sense of myself that I could never describe before. Although he has entertained the thought of living in Vietnam, he plans to stay in the United States because he says he could not find a job in Saigon that would pay him anywhere near his wages in San Jose.

When I met Dinh for the first time in Saigon, I assumed from his spending habits alone that he had a lot of money. One summer evening, for example, Dinh invited me out with his cousins, two uncles, and some other relatives. We went to Monaco,⁸ a large and fancy nightclub that had just opened. As a gracious guest, I ordered only one bottle of beer for the night, but was quickly astonished that Dinh had ordered for the table three bottles of Hennessy cognac, the very expensive, but most preferred, drink because of the status it conveys at nightclubs in the city. When it was time to pay the check, it came to nearly $400.⁹ I must have looked astonished, so Dinh quickly said, Don’t worry, my friend, I got it covered. It’s a night out with my family. We are having a good time.

During our interview the next day, as I treat Dinh to some much cheaper coffee, I broach the topic of money and ask why he did not split the bill with me or the other family members, including his two uncles who came with us. Without hesitation, and as if he thinks this was my first visit to Vietnam, Dinh explains:

When you go to nightclubs in Saigon, you have to remember that the prices are not local prices.¹⁰ Everything here is catered to overseas people, especially to us Viet Kieu.¹¹ All the businesses here, they know that white foreigners living in the city won’t spend $100 on a bottle of Hennessy. As Vietnamese men, we know how to play it right. We know how to spend money. As for my uncles, I would never ask them to pay for anything when we go out. It’s my treat when we go anywhere. We make much more money than they can ever make in Saigon, so it’s only right that we pay for everything.

In contrast with Cam, Dinh rarely sends money back to his family in Vietnam. Rather, he freely spends it on them when he makes return visits. In addition to lavish nights out, he has bought them pricey gifts, such as fancy picture frames and expensive clothes from the United States. He says he likes to spend money on his family because he wants them to know he loves them and he is willing to pay for them to have the best time in the city. Dinh explains that he knows each bottle of cognac he buys costs more than the monthly income of one of his uncles. That does not matter. The important thing, Dinh says, is that they know I am able to spend money like a foreigner. They have to know that we are doing well in America and that we have the cash to play. There is no question that Dinh is a big spender when he returns to Saigon.

.   .   .

Quang Tran is a young-looking forty-two-year-old man who lives in a Vietnamese enclave of about six thousand people in northeast Atlanta, Gwinnett County, Georgia. He is married and his three children attend the Gwinnett public schools. He and his wife take a daily ninety-mile round-trip to the Atlanta International Airport, where they work as airplane cabin cleaners. They moved to Gwinnett to be near its small Vietnamese community, where housing is cheaper and nicer than what is available near their workplace. Quang says his job is good because it is stable, unionized, and provides full health benefits as well as paid vacation time. Almost none of the immigrants featured in this book reported receiving these benefits from their work.

Quang is from a well-to-do family in Vietnam, and in many ways, migrating to the United States more than two decades ago as a boat refugee was an experience of downward mobility. Yet he says he and his wife have a good life in Atlanta. We have good friends. Not a lot of money, but we have more than many of our friends and family in Vietnam. We could do something else, like open up a business, but we would have to work a lot more hours and probably have to force our children to work in the business with us, like so many other Vietnamese families. Both Quang and his wife have a sturdy network of family in Vietnam, where they try to go every two or three years. On three occasions over the past decade, Quang went by himself because they could not afford to bring the entire family. Quang says they make sure the children grow up with a strong sense of their Vietnamese identity and attachment to their family in Vietnam.

Unlike Cam’s family, Quang’s family in Vietnam is not poor by the local standards. For example, he has one brother who works at the post office and another who owns a jewelry store; although his one sister is unemployed, her husband makes a steady income driving taxis in the city. By local measures, his left-behind family is middle class in their cultural context, even if each of them has a monthly income in Saigon of less than $300. The biggest financial difference between them and Quang, however, is that his siblings in Vietnam all own the modest houses in which they live, whereas Quang and his wife have more than twenty-five years left on the $900-per-month mortgage for their three-bedroom suburban house in Gwinnett. Like Dinh, it is important to Quang that his family knows he is doing well in the United States and has a good life. He explains:

I do have a good life in Atlanta. When I look at my brothers and sisters in Saigon, even among the successful ones who own their businesses, I feel they have less security in their lives. They don’t have insurance, and they do not have the future of social security in retirement that we have in America. I think life is better in America, even if it’s lonely. It’s fun in Vietnam and you have more family there, more community, but you can’t really have a future there.

One clear way that Quang shows his family he has a good life in the United States is to give them money on a regular basis: We make sure to send everyone some money on New Year’s, but also when they need it. The truth is that if you live in America, you have to show your family you can give them money on special occasions. If you don’t give them money, they think you are failing.

Quang explains that he controls most of the money in his household, especially when it comes to sending money to family in Vietnam. His wife, although not entirely happy with the arrangement, does not object because she has a brother, also living in Atlanta, who supports her family in Vietnam. Quang and his wife earn nearly $43,000 in combined yearly income and they estimate they send about 10 to 15 percent of that to Vietnam every year. In contrast to Cam, Quang says he does not think his family really needs the money he regularly sends back: I think they would be fine if we don’t send them money, but as a family member living in America, you have to send money back home regularly. Whereas Cam sends money because she feels an immense sense of responsibility for her family, some of whom live in abject poverty, Quang’s motivation for sending money is to make a symbolic gesture to convey that he has achieved the American Dream.

.   .   .

Cam, Dinh, and Quang live in diverse places across the American landscape: a small apartment in an ethnic enclave of Philadelphia, a rented room in San Jose, and a suburban house on the outskirts of Atlanta. They are all Vietnamese low-wage immigrants with no college degrees, which means their prospects for stable employment in the American economy are relatively limited. Although it is difficult to quantify the experience and identity of being poor,¹² demographers define low-wage workers as those who earn up to 200 percent of the prevailing minimum wage, which in 2012 was $7.25 per hour.¹³ Thus, anyone earning $14.50 per hour or less in 2012 was demographically a member of the low-wage labor force.¹⁴ Nearly half of all immigrant workers in the United States belong to this labor force, compared with one-third of all native workers.¹⁵ This low-wage labor force is the backbone of American society because its members do most of the hard physical labor that helps the world’s strongest economy flourish. The forty-six Vietnamese immigrants interviewed for this study have very few resources and scant savings. Their jobs barely allow them to make ends meet, yet they do not rely on government assistance for their daily expenditures. Most rent their homes, with about a quarter sharing a home with multiple families. Furthermore, and importantly, most manage to economize in such a way that they can make return visits as well as give and spend money on a regular basis in Vietnam. Most fit the classification that Katherine S. Newman and Victor Tan Chen term the missing class or the near poor, because for the most part, the migrant respondents in this study do not face the same problems as do those living below the poverty line, which in 2012 was $23,050 for a family of four.¹⁶ For example, the migrants in this study do not live in socially isolated neighborhoods, nor are they seen standing in welfare lines.¹⁷

These three individuals are similar because all have sturdy transnational family ties in Vietnam that compel them to make regular return visits, despite having very limited means to do so.¹⁸ More important, their return visits to Vietnam have compelled them in myriad ways to give and spend money, as well as to continue giving upon their return to the United States. Cam is extremely concerned about her family’s welfare in Saigon: her gratitude and her sense of being lucky to be in the United States, along with her guilt, have motivated her to commit a huge portion of her wages to her family. Dinh, on the other hand, spends, rather than gives, money when he makes return visits. This spending behavior allows him to demonstrate his relative success in the United States. He participates in consumption behavior that he would not take part in at home in San Jose. And for Quang, like Dinh, it is very important to show his family in Vietnam that he has a good life in America, according to the definition he has developed. However, unlike Dinh, Quang gives money when he returns to Vietnam as well as while he is back in the United States.

THE LEFT-BEHIND

Lan Bui is one of Cam’s four younger siblings, the sister Cam identified as the least privileged. Lan is a tailor who works in a small shop in District 12 of Saigon, where she earns a little more than 2 million VND a month, the equivalent of about $100. She first left the family home in Thu Duc to work in a foreign-owned garment factory, where she agreed to live in a dormitory the company built for workers. Later, through the introduction of a friend, she was able to get a job in a small shop in the city making twice the amount she earned at the factory. A twenty-seven-year-old woman with a soft smile but an assertive personality, Lan met her husband at the factory where she worked. They have two children, who are too young to go to school, so Lan leaves them in Thu Duc with her parents while she and her husband work at the tailor shop.

Lan says she and her husband wish to open their own tailor shop in the city, but that would require more capital than they have. She says her sister Cam has been helpful to her family but cannot help with Lan’s goal of opening a tailor shop: Even though she had been away for so long, Cam came back and saw our living standards, and she has been helping us over the past few years. She promised that she will help pay for the educational fees for my children to go to school. Even though it’s a public school, we still have to pay fees that my husband and I cannot afford.

Lan and her husband own a tiny plot of land on the outskirts of Saigon, where they are slowly building a modest home. As is the case for many young couples in Vietnam, they had the financial help of their parents, who gave them $4,200, which, along with their savings, allowed them to buy the plot outright. After two years, however, the house still has only a roof, basic furnishings, and dirt floors. When their children visit, they sleep in a loft built of cheap wood bought from construction companies that sell leftover materials in the urban communities springing up around the new Saigon. Instead of a bathroom with plumbing, they use an outhouse. We hope to slowly save more money and build up our house, Lan says, but land is all we need for now, and we are fine with the roof over our head. One of my brothers did the same, and within two years he was able to put concrete floors in his house. Lan and her husband make a joint income of about 5 million VND per month, which is slightly more than the average income of people living in the city’s outskirts.¹⁹ Through careful spending habits, they are able to save about 20 percent of their income monthly. All they need is about 12 million VND to put concrete floors in the house, which Lan says they should easily be able to save within two years.

Lan and her husband used to ride their bicycles six miles each way to and from the tailor shop. The trip took about thirty minutes each way, and along the picturesque ride, they would stop at the market, visit friends, and run errands. When Cam bought them a motorbike, they were the first among their coworkers at the tailor shop to own one. Their lives were transformed because they could travel long distances for leisure and to shop. Nevertheless, as Lan explains, the gift was not accompanied by the expected boost in status:

To be honest, I have been embarrassed for many years to tell people that I have a brother and a sister living in America. Because we have nothing to show for it. I was afraid that people would say, You have the reputation, but not the goods. I don’t know why but it took them a long time to return home. Over the years, we saw so many other people with family members from abroad come back, bringing back gifts, building homes for their families, and people’s lives were changed much better than ours. When my sister came back, we only got the motorbike, so even though I know my coworkers wondered how we got the money to buy the motorbike, we did not tell everyone that my sister gave it to us.

.   .   .

Dinh’s uncle, Son, is a forty-eight-year-old shop owner in District 3, the district located adjacent to the bustling center of Saigon. Son sells a wide assortment of household supplies, with a focus on simple and cheap health and beauty items, such as shampoo, toothpaste, and lotion. He got into the business when his wife’s family in Vietnam helped make the initial investment. When I met him, he had owned the shop for more than fifteen years. Ten years ago, with savings and a steady income from their business, Son and his wife were able to buy the upstairs unit of their shop, and they live there now. Son explains that together they make